Salt
       

We sit at the table passing around the blame.
No one takes a slice. An animal tries to warn
us, but we have her for dinner. We were hungry.
Tomorrow we will warm up the leftovers.
We wait for water. A few hours without it
is terrible but we have been told that the body
will adjust. For now, a sandstorm in the throat
but later certain, like bark. One of us is convinced
that she is no longer an animal. More veins, less
blood. We avoid looking at the tall glass with stems
of cut flowers. Unseasonal heat. Our impatient children
stick their fingers into the peach to prize out a stone.
A centre so hard you'd feel lucky to find rings instead
of ribs and where her toes were before, a complication
of roots. Shoot nothing from your mouth but a calm
that confirms not all rainfall is benediction. Imagine
this: a sanitary kitchen, windows, tiles, spoons made
of wood and a row of potted plants, stomata sparkling
like salt. That dawn was chlorophyll stained. Her wants
become simpler: air, liquid, light. No, don't imagine this;
become a paradox so clean it cannot be touched. Let us
compare the sharpness of wives. We have not come far,
it is the forest that recedes farther away from our reach.
Another animal tries to warn us, we can feel our teeth
growing warm. Our reluctance goes cold. Afterwards,
we will paint our grief.

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Copyright © 2018 Sohini Basak All rights reserved
from We Live in the Newness of Small Differences
Eyewear Publishing
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission